


The Power Of Jealousy

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Drunken Confessions, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Jealous Mycroft, Jealous Sherlock, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Matchmaking, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21846316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock sends Greg Lestrade to look after his brother right after the events of the final problem. When Greg arrives, he finds Mycroft in a rather unexpected condition. And what Mycroft accidentally tells him, makes him hatch a plan.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 33
Kudos: 117





	1. Chapter 1

_“Mycroft – make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”_   
_“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”_   
_“Thanks, Greg."_

### A Drunken Confession And A Cunning DI

Sherlock had been right, no doubt about that.

Silently, Greg Lestrade was looking down on the man he knew as Sherlock's omnipotent, powerful older brother.

Of course he didn't actually _know_ the man. Did anyone? His assistant, perhaps. Greg wouldn’t have betted on that though. Sherlock? To some extent, certainly. They had grown up together, as much as this was possible with such a huge age gap. But did he know the adult man? Probably not much better than he did...

Greg had met him pretty often. Mostly during the early years of Sherlock's work for him. Mostly at the sides of hospital beds. He had seen the pain in the man’s eyes when he had been looking down on his wayward little brother, unconscious, drugged, in all shades of hurt. Mycroft Holmes had always kept his shields in place, at least in Greg’s presence. Only his eyes had given him away. Blue seas of ice to an unobservant (and probably frightened) stranger but Greg had seen the worry and the fear – and the affection. There had never been any doubt for him that Mycroft Holmes loved his younger brother dearly – no matter how little Sherlock paid attention to it, let alone appreciated it. Mycroft had suffered, feeling helpless in the eyes of Sherlock's self-destructive streak.

But Greg had never seen him like this.

That he had even got into the man’s house was speaking volumes about his condition. Greg had rung the doorbell first, of course. Several times. He had seen light so Mycroft was obviously at home. And then he had walked around the house and tried the veranda door – and it had been unlocked.

He had carefully entered, saying the man’s name loudly. There had been no answer.

Which was no surprise whatsoever. Nobody could drink half a bottle of whiskey and still be awake. And Greg would have never thought the man could snore. But he did.

He was still wearing the crumpled suit in which they had found him. A suit that Greg couldn’t have afforded with his salary, slim and worthy, but stained and sweaty from a day spent in the world’s equivalent of hell. Greg couldn’t even imagine his panic when he had woken up from being sedated by this monster of a sister, alone, locked into a cell, not knowing what had happened to his brother. He knew he had been seriously shaken; he had played it down a bit for Sherlock, not really knowing why. Perhaps because he had known Mycroft Holmes didn’t want to appear weak, least of all towards his baby brother.

Greg went to search for a bathroom, and he came back with a wet cloth a couple of minutes later, gently wiping it over the sweaty forehead of the man. It might help with the inevitable hangover.

He wasn’t surprised when Mycroft stirred at the contact with cold water. “Sherlock,” he mumbled, and this didn’t surprise Greg any more.

“He’s fine, don’t worry,” he soothed the man, unsure if he would even hear him. Carefully, he loosened the man's tie. It really didn’t look comfortable.

“My boy… Evil Eurus...”

He wasn’t speaking exactly coherently and if Sherlock had not told him the strange name of his sister, he wouldn’t have understood it. “Yes. Very evil. But she didn’t hurt Sherlock. And he saved John.” Probably Mycroft couldn’t have cared less about the fate of Doctor Watson. It had been hard enough for Greg to deal with the man after his confession of having hurt Sherlock. If Sherlock had wanted to press charges, he would have taken care of it at once. But of course Sherlock had not wanted it. He was too forgiving. But Greg was quite hopeful that John had learned from this. The boys seemed to get along very well again.

“John. Sherlock’s family...” Mycroft was still mumbling. He had not opened his eyes.

Greg shook his head. “No, he’s not. _You_ are.”

“Love you, Lock. Love you...”

Greg didn’t think it made sense to tell him he wasn’t Sherlock. But he could hardly pretend he was the detective, either. “He loves you too I’m sure,” he softly settled for.

“Love you… wrong...”

That made Greg freeze. What was Mycroft saying here? Perhaps it didn’t mean anything; he was heavily drunk after all. “You love your brother, sure. Very normal.”

“Not normal… My beautiful boy...” He made a strange gesture with his right hand – as if he was touching something. And then Mycroft drifted back to sleep, and Greg was standing in his neat living room, shocked and disturbed as there was hardly any doubt about the meaning of the man’s words, drunk or not.

Eventually he made sure Mycroft was lying on his side, a woollen blanket stuffed tightly around him so he could not roll onto his back, his head resting on a pillow as comfortable as possible. This had to do. He couldn’t carry the man upstairs, not alone.

He locked the backdoor before he left. Deep in his thoughts, he walked to his car through the chilly air. And when he arrived at home, he had made up his mind about what Mycroft had told him and wondered why it had surprised him that much at all. He could have seen it in the man's eyes years before.

*****

“You couldn’t even solve this case alone?” Sherlock was appalled. “Even Donovan could have figured that one out!”

Greg gave him a wry smile and scratched his head. “Sorry, boy. Had a short night and my brain doesn’t work quite that well. Well, actually it was a _long_ night.” He winked at Sherlock.

What was that supposed to mean? Sherlock shook his head impatiently. “Well, our night wasn’t that filled with sleeping either.” He hardly slept a lot even on days that counted as normal. But after this odyssey?

“Really not,” John mumbled. “We were in my flat in the early morning hours and then we didn’t get much sleep anymore.”

Greg chuckled. “Oooh.”

Sherlock glowered at him, then at John. “What are you telling him?” He really didn’t need anyone more who thought he and John were lovers.

“I just meant we couldn’t sleep. Too wired! I almost drowned in a bloody well for God’s sake!”

“Ah,” Greg made. “Poor boys. Bad night for the two of you indeed.” He smirked and Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Do you want to tell us anything?” Why had Lestrade stressed ‘the two of you’ so obviously?

“Yeah, you sent him to your brother, remember?” John tilted his head. “But that doesn’t mean...”

“Of course it doesn’t mean that!” Sherlock hissed. Then he stared at Lestrade who looked like the cat that got the cream but didn't say anything.

“Shit,” John mumbled and Sherlock didn’t know if he should scream, run off or bang their heads together.

Greg showed him a brief, smug smile. “Okay boys, let’s solve this case together then.”

“There is nothing to solve. I can tell you where the killer lives – in the same house as the victim!”

“You don’t have to screech, Sherlock. I’m standing right next to you.” Greg turned to walk to the body and he walked rather… strangely…

“Fucking hell…” John mumbled. “He walks as if…”

“Shut up, John. Probably he just pulled a muscle when he tied his shoelaces this morning. He's old!”

“But not dead…”

Sherlock winced. How close had they been to die the last night… His brain had been smoking when he had been trying to find a way out of this cell for all of them. He had let his brother believe he would really shoot him. Then he had shocked Eurus (and the two men) with pointing the gun at his own head. What if she hadn't intervened? What if there hadn't been darts with whatever she had used to sedate them but with poison instead? And she wouldn’t have needed poison to end him. She would have only had to wait…

Mycroft had been completely shaken and Sherlock had never seen him like this. Weak, scared but also so brave. He had meant it – offering Sherlock to shoot him. He would have been ready to die at his hands because he blamed himself for everything Eurus and Moriarty had done. Stupid! It was nobody's fault but theirs. And how could he have shot his own brother? And then he had thought Mycroft wouldn’t want to see him in this night, after all that had happened, but he hadn't wanted him to be all alone either so he had sent Lestrade to him.

“Can you explain it to me?” the DI now asked him, giving him a friendly smile.

“What's that behind your ear?” John asked him, leaning forward.

“Oh, that. Just had a little fight with my vacuum cleaner,” the policeman said sheepishly, and Sherlock gaped at him, speechless.

*****

“Do you think he and your brother…”

“No.” Sherlock was leading the way to the police car that would bring them back into the city, and he was walking so fast that John almost had to run to keep up.

“But he has a hickey and that grin and how he walks…”

“Shut. Up. John. My brother was certainly not in the mood for doing what you are implying last night.” Actually he couldn’t imagine Mycroft would _ever_ be in the mood for this, let alone with Lestrade! “And Graham is not gay.”

“Greg.”

“Whatever.”

“They would make for a very attractive couple,” John mused, and Sherlock turned to him like a very pissed-off snake.

He was not in a good mood and he didn’t see it improving any time soon. “No they wouldn’t. He's a goldfish.”

“Ah. Whatever this is supposed to mean. Another word for idiot I guess. But still you sent him to look after your brother. Why?”

Yes. Why? It had seemed to be a good idea in this moment. He knew Lestrade had met Mycroft quite often in the dark times before he had moved in with John. Mostly at hospital beds… They seemed to be rather fond of each other. At least respect one another. But why did the sheer thought of Gus doing… _things_ with his brother make him sick? In any way he had no intention to discuss his brother's love life, if it existed or not. “Be quiet.”

“You are really cheerful today… And you weren't even in that well…”

Sherlock sighed and ripped the door of the car open with much more force than necessary. “I should have left you in it.”

“What?” John hurled himself onto the back seat on the other side. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing whatsoever! Baker Street please,” he said as haughtily as if he was talking to a cab driver. He could see the policeman rolling his eyes in the mirror and glowered at him until the man finally started the car, mumbling something Sherlock didn’t understand and didn’t care about.

“You know it's a ruin…”

“I don't care. I want to be alone.”

John rolled his eyes. “Great. One could almost think you were…”

“…what, John?!”

“Jealous, Sherlock,” the doctor said calmly.

“Pfff. As if I was keen on Lestrade's fat behind.”

John grinned. “It's not fat at all and you know it. And who said I'm talking about Lestrade?”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment and it was surprising that John didn’t go up in flames. Then he turned his head and stared out of the window for the rest of the way, trying not to imagine Mycroft and Gil together.

### Drinking Tea With Mrs Hudson

“Here, love, your tea.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled. “Is there any chance for...”

“Of course. Here. You still like ginger nuts?”

“Mrs Hudson, the day I don’t like them anymore is...” Sherlock broke off. Which day? The day his brother fell in love with a grey-haired DI? Because he couldn’t be, could he? And why was he thinking about this at all?!

“Are you okay?” Mrs Hudson had sat down opposite of him at her kitchen table. She took his hand. “It must have been such a shock.”

John had called her and told her about Sherlock's sister. The press would hopefully not be informed about the Sherrinford-horrors but Sherlock knew it could happen. Mycroft's people would try to keep a lid on it but there had been so many people involved… “Yes. Ghastly.”

“What will happen to her now?”

Sherlock shrugged. “She’ll be locked away for good I guess.” He had told her she wouldn’t be lost anymore. In this moment when he had been so desperate about John, who had been about to die in the well. He would have promised everything to find him in time. But she had been alone all this time. He should try to give her something… And then Mycroft's face popped up in his mind. These blue eyes, so far from being icy. Full of the sentiment he had always claimed to despise. But in the end, his brother had always been sentimental – if he was concerned. And now? Had he directed his affection at someone else? Why did that sting so much?

“She must be a monster,” Mrs Hudson mumbled.

Sherlock shook his head. “What she did was unforgivable. But a monster she’s not. She’s my sister.”

“The sister who made your life miserable with using Moriarty against you… and the sister who wanted you to kill your brother.”

Sherlock winced but of course it was all true. Eurus was out of reach and had been so forever. Still…

“Poor boy,” Mrs Hudson crooned. “You always think of others.”

“Me? I’m a high-funct...”

“Ah, nonsense! You’re a puppy! How’s your brother?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Good, I suppose.” Mycroft had to be at work now. If he was able to work at all after this night of horrors and then of… No. No way could this have happened! But then… why would Lestrade let him believe it had? A thought wavered through his brain, a thought so absurd and disturbing that Sherlock didn’t dare think it to the end.

And before this thought could insist on being acknowledged, his phone chirped with a text.

Mycroft…

_Our parents will come to Whitehall at 4. I need to tell them about Eurus before it gets through the media. Will you come? MH_

Sherlock stared at this text for a full minute, not hearing a word from Mrs Hudson’s chattering. Then he typed his reply.

_Yes. I will be there. How are you? SH_

_Fine. Well, not exactly fine but… It’s all right. And you? And John? MH_

_We are good. As good as anyone can be after this day. He is in his flat I guess. I’m in Baker Street. SH_

_How does it look? MH_

_Like a war zone. Will take some time until I can move back in. SH_

_Listen… John’s flat is rather small. Can I stay with you? SH_

Why had he written this? Was he mad? If Mycroft was really dating Lestrade now, he wouldn’t want him to hang around! And John would not understand that.

But Mycroft's reply came very quickly.

_Of course you can. But I don’t think I would want you to meet clients here. MH_

“Mrs Hudson… Do you possible have a spare room where I can talk to clients?”

The old lady sighed. “If you had listened to me, you would have heard I just offered you my dining room.”

“Oh, sorry. And thank you!” Sherlock smiled at her and she smiled back.

“You know you can have everything from me.”

“Yes.” And he could also have everything from his brother. And why did that make him feel so weird all at once?

_No worries. I won’t bring anyone. Just need a place to sleep. John won’t be able to endure me for very long. SH_

_You can of course come. Let’s talk about the details later in my office. MH_

_Fine. See you then. SH_

*****

Mycroft Holmes looked at his phone for a full minute without really seeing it. Sherlock wanted to stay with him. He could have sworn he and John… Well, obviously he had been wrong. He had been wrong pretty often lately...

“Here, sir.”

“Thank you, Anthea.” Gratefully, he accepted a glass of water and a painkiller. He shouldn’t have drunk so much after coming home last night. But then, when if not in this night should he have got drunk? It had been horrible. Simply horrible. Seeing people die, being expected to kill someone, no matter how stupid and disobedient this man had been. But the worst part had been the moment when Sherlock had threatened to shoot himself. If Eurus had not kept him from it… Mycroft didn’t even want to imagine it.

Drinking himself into oblivion had been the only suitable reaction, he thought. But it was strange. He could have sworn there had been someone in his house. But who? He just hoped it hadn’t been Sherlock. He had seen him so incredibly weak and useless already. He didn’t have to see him pissed like a sailor… But if Sherlock really had been there, he wouldn’t want to stay with him, would he? Or… Did he want to stay because he had seen him in this condition? He didn’t even want to imagine that. It was his job to look after his little brother, not the other way around.

Soon he would see him. And their parents… Somehow he knew this would be almost as bad as Sherrinford...

### Confronting the Parents

At first Sherlock thought he had misheard.

“You were always the grown-up.”

What? He, the grown-up? Until yesterday, he had been the black sheep of the family, and rightfully so. He had stolen money from his mother to buy drugs. He had shown up to a family dinner with all the nasty relatives, high as a kite and half-naked. And had his parents forgotten that he had drugged them on Christmas, just like Mycroft? Of course they didn’t know that he had killed Magnussen afterwards but still. Calling him the grown-up was a joke at best and it hurt his brother even though of course he tried to not show it. Which was futile. Sherlock wouldn’t have said he knew Mycroft, not like he knew John. But he could read him in times of deep sentiment. He had read him in Sherrinford. How ashamed and guilty he had been feeling. And how much he loved him…

Sherlock felt very strange all at once. But now was hardly the time to think about… Actually there would never be the time to think about… whatever he had just thought he shouldn’t think about now.

Actually he was relieved when his mother asked, impatiently, “What do we do now?”

“I will visit her,” Sherlock said, and he saw a weird conglomerate of expressions on Mycroft's face. Hurt, probably. Eurus had wanted him to die. But also relief as he knew it would placate the parents.

“We want to see her, too!” Mummy insisted.

“Mycroft will have it arranged, right?” Sherlock looked at his brother, trying to send some _‘It’s almost over, just let them see for themselves’_ vibes.

“Of course,” Mycroft said, meekly. “Please let me know when it suits you and the helicopter will be at your service.”

Poor Mycroft… Sherlock couldn’t even imagine how he was feeling. The golden son with the power-job, suddenly in the bad books. Feeling already guilty for what Eurus had done, even though that was seriously stupid as he had simply trusted people to do their jobs, he’d just had to hear that he was limited and that he was the ‘idiot boy’ for their parents all at once.

They would calm down; they both knew it. Once they had tried – and in all probability failed – to talk to their, nicely put, difficult daughter, they would see what Mycroft had meant. But right now Mycroft had to feel bad. He wasn’t used to be insulted. Well, by someone else than Sherlock…

He did see the irony. He wanted to understand Eurus, if this was even remotely possible at all, he wanted to try and get her out of her shell and give her some company so at least some of her cracks could start to heal, but he had always treated his brother like shit. He had never even tried to understand Mycroft. And he did know that all his brother had done had been out of the wish to protect him. Even sending him away to this supposedly lethal mission after murdering Magnussen had certainly just been a pretence. He had wanted Sherlock to see how wrong it had been, had wanted to show him that he had overstepped every limit, but he would have certainly got him out if Eurus hadn’t been so kind to let the Moriarty-video air. Sherlock's actions might have reminded him of Eurus and that couldn’t have been a very nice memory, but of course Mycroft knew why he had killed Magnussen – to save Mary and to save his own and John’s arse… He hadn’t killed because he liked it.

He winced when Mummy embraced him. “You will let us know when you think we can go there together, right?”

“Sure. I will go alone first and then we will all go. Even Mycroft.” He looked at his brother, who clearly didn’t think this was a good idea.

But his brother nodded. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock ushered the older Holmes out of his brother’s office. “Anthea will show you the exit, right?”

The ever-efficient PA got up and gave the parents a false smile. “With pleasure.”

Sherlock believed that in a second. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Anthea had heard every word of this nasty conversation through the intercom. Perhaps she was the only one his brother really trusted. Well, given that he didn’t have anything with Lestrade…

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Mycroft gave him a wry smile when he returned. “I didn’t expect you to support me that much.”

“What they said was out of shock. We both know who the grown-up of us is, and it’s certainly not me.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Sherlock. You were way smarter last night when you got us all out. You eventually deciphered this silly song. Got your friend out of danger.” They had spoken about the details before the parents had arrived in all their fury and unfairness. Of course Mycroft had also read the reports from the night before when Sherlock and John had spoken with Lestrade.

Sherlock didn’t like his depressed tone. “Took me long enough to figure out there’s no plane. Not my proudest hour.”

“Ask me,” Mycroft mumbled. “So… You still want to move in with me? Until your flat is habitable again, I mean?”

“Are you really okay with it?” Sherlock asked back. If Mycroft was really interested in the DI and planned to spend his rare spare time with him instead of his brat of a brother, it was the moment to say it.

“Yes, sure. If you need new clothes and all, let me know and I will have Anthea get everything.”

“Does she buy your underwear, too?” Sherlock asked, curiously.

Mycroft blushed a bit. “No. She doesn’t. I order this stuff online...”

Of course… “Well then. I guess you’ll be busy now. I will get some of my belongings over to you in the meantime.”

“Do that. You can take any of the guest rooms. It will be your home as long as you wish.”

Sherlock thanked him and left him alone after suggesting he should meet Eurus the next day. And when he stalked through the corridors, somehow he had the strange feeling this arrangement would lead to developments they couldn’t foresee now.

He should think about this suspicion (or premonition?) later.


	2. Chapter 2

### In The Pub With Greg And John

“Thanks for making time, Greg,” John said when they were sitting down at a free table. The pub was rather crowded but the people seemed relaxed and John hoped there wouldn’t be any hassle. The last time he had been in a pub he had almost been hit by a chair.

“No problem. I was free like a bird tonight anyway.”

Greg sounded friendly but a bit cautious. John didn’t blame him. They had not met up for a beer ever since his violence against Sherlock. He would never do something like this again. Never. He was very glad Sherlock had forgiven him so quickly. But Greg still seemed to mistrust him to some extent. “Sherlock moved out of my flat,” he said when they had ordered their drinks and chips.

“Oh. Where’s he going?”

“To his brother.” John watched Greg closely and he wondered if he should be surprised or not when he saw a brief grin making his lips twitch.

“I see. Well, he certainly has a lot more space,” Greg stated.

“You…” John broke off when the young woman who had taken their order returned with their drinks and their snacks. She was definitely a looker with her tight jeans and her long, blonde hair.

“Thanks, lady,” Greg said, smiling at her, and then his look darted into her décolleté.

The waitress smiled back and wiggled her hips when she walked away.

“Fuck, why did you let us believe you had sex with his brother?” John hissed when they were alone again.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t say a word!”

“No, but even I could deduce it!”

“Well, seems you couldn’t, actually,” Greg said smugly.

John leaned back, shaking his head. “No, obviously not. But you fooled even the great Sherlock Holmes. So why?”

“Sherlock didn’t like it? Cheers,” Greg asked and sipped at his beer after ironically raising his glass.

John drank as well. “No. Not one bit. He thinks you're not even worth licking his brother's shoes I suppose.” Sherlock had been so pissed off and had snarled at him, and then he had sent him a short text hours later, telling him he would move in with his brother until his flat was habitable again. It was very hard not to connect the dots to a rather disturbing picture. But was it really? John remembered all too well how the brothers had been looking at each other in this tense situation in Sherrinford. Damn, Sherlock had even smiled at his brother. When had he ever done this in John’s presence before? But of course this didn't have to mean he… He focused on Lestrade again, who nibbled at his chips and looked thoughtful but pleased. “Mycroft told you something... unexpected when you were there?” It was the only explanation.

Greg shrugged. “He didn’t talk to me. He was totally drunk when I arrived.”

“But he did say something,” John insisted.

“You’re getting pretty good at this deduction stuff,” Greg said. “I might have heard something… or not.”

John sighed. “You can tell me. I would never do any harm.” He saw Greg’s doubtful look and knew he deserved it. “I will never do any harm _again_ ,” he corrected himself dryly. “Are you sure though? Totally, completely sure?”

“I’d say 99 percent. But of course that doesn’t mean he would ever act on it. I mean, I’m sure this hasn’t happened only yesterday. Have you ever noticed him trying to actually…”

“…get in his pants?” John finished his question a tad rudely. “No, of course not. But damn, what he endured from him, even physical violence...” He blushed when Greg raised his eyebrows. “Not as bad as what I did. Listen, I have apologised to Sherlock, multiple times. I will apologise to you, too. It was wrong, it was stupid and it was unforgivable but Sherlock did forgive me. And not because he wants anything from me! But Sherlock was really nasty to Mycroft ever since I’ve known them and still… Mycroft loved him. Always.”

“He’s his brother after all.”

“Yeah, and Eurus is his sister. And he clearly hates her. I should have seen it. Mycroft doesn’t like people. Nobody. Nobody but Sherlock.”

“But Sherlock seems to like you a lot more than his brother.”

John shook his head. “Lately he’s been different.” He remembered the discussion about Lady Bracknell. There had been affection in the air, coming from both brothers. He heard Sherlock say, _“Good luck, boys.”_ He had even called Mycroft ‘dear’ in Sherrinford. Fine, he had told him to shut up but still. This endearment… Sherlock had never wanted anyone. His infatuation with Irene Adler had probably been completely intellectual. And did John really believe he answered her texts? Sherlock had told him two different stories – and he had sounded way more convincing when he had first said he never answered her. In any way Sherlock was gay; John had known that from day one. Irene might have confused him but he couldn’t see Sherlock having sex with her.

The next question was a bit more difficult to answer – could he see him having sex with… Mycroft?

And strangely enough, he could.

“Fuck,” he mumbled.

“Yeah. If we are right, that’s what it should lead to,” Greg chuckled.

What an image… “And… you don’t mind? Last I heard, incest was forbidden by law,” John whispered. Not that it made any sense. The Holmes men could hardly get each other pregnant, and if Mycroft ever forced himself onto Sherlock, John would eat his shoes.

Greg shrugged. “Not my division.”

John stared at him and then they both burst out laughing.

“What will we do now?” John asked when they had calmed down.

“Well, not sure. When Sherlock lives with Mycroft, they might figure it out by themselves. If not… Well, I made Sherlock jealous, trying to figure out if he returns those feelings. And I’d say there is a good chance that he does.”

“True. But if he does, he might have hidden it from himself.” John was rather sure Sherlock had never woken up with the thought _‘Damn, I’m so in love with my big brother.’_

“Yeah. That’s the problem with those rational people.”

John nodded. “Well, let’s leave them alone for now. Perhaps they’ll surprise us.”

“Boy, since I’ve known them, they’ve done little else.”

“A toast on that,” said John, and the doctor and the detective inspector raised their glasses and grinned at one another, and John felt he had got his friend back, and it felt damn good. And if those stubborn Holmeses didn’t get their shit together, well, he and Greg would figure something out.

And then, when they left the pub hours later, both not quite stable on their feet, John asked, “What about the hickey, man?”

Greg laughed out loud. “As I said – the vacuum cleaner. Only that I did it on purpose. Hurt pretty much!”

Damn… Sherlock had no idea what great friends he had.

### An Awkward Dinner

“Thank you.” Mycroft looked a bit surprised when Sherlock took his coat to hang it up. “I could get used to that,” he joked and then blushed. “Of course I know I really shouldn’t.”

Sherlock gave him a shy smile. “Well, if you’ll have me, I’ll be here for a while. The workers will only come next week to start rebuilding my flat.” Actually, he was in no hurry. John wouldn’t move in with him again anyway. There was no room for Rosie after all and she could hardly sleep in John's room forever.

“You can stay as long as you want to,” Mycroft assured him. “Do you find one of the guest rooms sufficient?”

“Mycroft, they are all twice as big as my living room, let alone my bedroom. It's totally fine. I took the one upstairs; I hope that is okay.” The one closest to Mycroft's chamber. It just had been the most sensible decision, Sherlock told himself. Again. He had been sitting on the large, comfortable bed in a very fine room, with a wardrobe much too big for the small amount of clothes that had survived the explosion of the patience grenade. He really had to go shopping. But then – he didn’t need much more than two suits and his coat. And some pants and socks, of course. And he would get them himself, thanks very much.

“Yes, sure.” Mycroft smiled at him. “Are you hungry? I've brought some sandwiches for us.”

“Oh. I should have thought about it.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock, you're not my butler. We will figure out how we organise these things. I'm… I'm glad you are here.”

Sherlock stared at him until Mycroft suggested, with slightly reddened cheeks, to go to the living room to have their dinner.

A few minutes later, they had a sandwich on a plate each and were sitting on Mycroft's large couch. Mycroft had poured them a glass of wine, too. “So… It was a long day, hm?” the politician asked, looking rather tired and exhausted himself.

Sherlock nodded. “It really was. No sleep last night…” He gave Mycroft an inquiring look.

Mycroft tilted his head. “It's understandable if you couldn’t sleep after these… events. Sherlock, I'm so, so sorry. I really should have done better with her.” His face had darkened with every word.

Sherlock raised a hand. “Stop it, Mycroft. It wasn't your fault. You told them to leave her alone and they ignored your orders. It was me who convinced you to go there with us so everything that happened yesterday is not to be blamed on you, either. Actually it is all to be blamed on Eurus.”

“And still you want to make friends with her.” Mycroft's voice sounded a bit bitter.

“She is my sister, Mycroft. And I hate the fact she’s been alone in this cell all her life even though I do see the necessity. What she did was horrible. But… I don't want to give her up just so. And I thought it would please our parents.”

“Since when do you want to please them?” Mycroft sighed. “Apologies. You are right. I will organise a flight to Sherrinford for tomorrow. I had no chance to do it today.”

“Smallwood and all gave you a hard time as well…”

“Oh yes. A disaster like this… Even if we can keep it out of the media – it has already upset a bunch of people. I had to answer a lot of questions today.”

“Well, I hope Lestrade didn’t ask you too much last night,” Sherlock blurted. And blushed. Why had he asked this now?

And Mycroft paled. “Lestrade… Last night? Oh…” He avoided Sherlock's look and hurried to eat half of his sandwich.

Sherlock clenched his jaws. So Mycroft had had sex with Gabriel? It did look as if he'd forgotten about it until now – obviously it hadn't been exactly groundbreaking… Still he hated it. Mycroft was too smart for this man. He was too handso-… He interrupted his own thought. God… He was going mad.

He shot up. “I need to go to bed.”

“What? Oh, of course. It was a long day,” Mycroft repeated, looking confused and a bit hurt.

Sherlock felt the same. He also felt… betrayed. And how stupid was this? Mycroft was an adult. He could do… things with whomever he wanted and he didn’t have to justify it. “If he comes over, please try to be quiet,” he caught himself saying like a petulant teenager nonetheless, and when Mycroft almost choked on his sandwich, he fled the room with burning cheeks and an inexplicable pain in his heart, leaving his shocked, disturbed and shaken brother behind.

### Mycroft Comes To Baker Street

John had debated with himself for the last two hours – should he tell Sherlock that Mycroft and Greg had not even talked to each other that night, let alone done something more delicate?

Sherlock had come to the appointment he had made with a client on the phone in a mood as black as the darkest night so obviously he and Mycroft had not had a very pleasant first evening together in his brother's house…

Still John had decided against it. Should Sherlock suffer from his jealousy, if this really was the reason, some more. It might help him realise that he wanted to be in Greg’s alleged position. John caught a fierce glare from Sherlock when he chuckled at this pun while their client was still telling her obviously fascinating story, to which John hadn't paid much attention so far. Not only was Sherlock the much more interesting subject today, he also was still tired. Rosie had woken up several times in this night and eventually he had let her sleep in his bed, staring into the darkness for hours. He had never seen himself raising a baby alone. To be able to come to Baker Street for the case – and of course even more to see how Sherlock was doing – he had brought her to Molly, who would only work in the late afternoon.

It had not been a very pleasant meeting. He had texted her before, letting her know why Sherlock had called her to make her say these words, and she had answered in rather frosty words. And she obviously still suffered from this situation. John found it a bit… exaggerated. After all Sherlock had tried to save her life because he liked her a lot. Of course he didn’t love her the way she loved him but she should have really known that by now, shouldn’t she? Sherlock had already come a long way from just using her for his purposes to respect her and see her as a friend. That way wouldn’t go anywhere else and a smart woman like her should be aware of it. But love was a nasty menace. It drew you to the strangest people. Sometimes even assassins…

“You're exceptionally helpful today,” Sherlock snarled at him.

Waking up from his thoughts, John realised that the client had left. “Sorry, had another rather awful night. How was yours?”

Sherlock slumped in his chair. “Awesome,” he mumbled. In fact he looked every bit as exhausted as John was feeling.

“Does anyone want tea?” Mrs Hudson once more saved the day. In a splendid mood, she put a tray full of goodies onto her dining room table.

“Oh, Mrs Hudson, you saviour!” John said full of conviction, and she beamed at him.

“So nice to have you both here. Shame you won't move back in when everything is ready, John.”

He accepted a cup of tea with a grateful smile. “I will not disappear again though, I promise.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said meekly and put a biscuit into his mouth. A big one. And then he almost choked on it when a tall man with an umbrella appeared in the doorframe.

“Oh! How did you get in?” Mrs Hudson screeched, reaching up to her heart.

“Well, the door was open.” Mycroft gave her an apologetic look. “Good morning, everybody.”

“Morning, Mycroft,” John said calmly, trying to figure out the older Holmes man’s mood. Not much better than Sherlock's, but concealed better.

Sherlock was still trying to chew his biscuit and reached for his tea to get it down. He had stared at Mycroft but now he was avoiding his look, and John tried to deduce Mycroft's expression. It was hard to overlook – he was in love with Sherlock. Now that he knew it, the signs were all there.

“I just came to… let you know the helicopter will be ready this afternoon. I'll send a car here that will bring you to there. You can expect it at three-thirty.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock finally brought out.

He didn’t ask the obvious question – why had he had to come here to tell him something he could have put in a short text? His voice wasn't cold. It was… weird. John had never heard him speaking in such a tone before. He did feel something for Mycroft and it wasn't brotherly. But he didn’t sound cheerful at all.

And as soon as Sherlock had turned to him again, Mycroft had brought his shields back in place and now he nodded politely at his brother.

That told John two things: Mycroft had not expected him, John, to see his feelings for his brother. That was fine. Being an idiot for a Holmes man was nothing he wasn't used to. But John also knew Mycroft would in all probability never act on his feelings, and as confused and strange Sherlock was feeling, there was not much hope that Sherlock would do it. They needed an incentive. Perhaps that would make them talk…

“I hope you’ll be back in the evening,” he said to Sherlock.

“Huh? Why?”

“I’ve got plans. With you.” John gave him a suggestive smile.

Sherlock, naturally, looked at him as if had spoken Mandarin. “Do you now,” he rumbled, and to John’s delight, he stood up to reach across the table to get another biscuit, and John smacked him on the arse and the sound echoed through the small room.

It had been a completely spontaneous action and Sherlock could have spoilt it thoroughly by slapping him in the face or shouting at him, but the detective just turned to him, wide-eyed and thankfully speechless, and Mycroft couldn’t see his expression from where he was sitting.

The politician or string-puller or whatever he actually was, John had never really understood, shot up from his chair and to the door, mumbling a “Be in time for the helicopter’, and then he was gone.

“What the fucking hell...”

“Sit down, Sherlock. If it doesn’t sting too much,” John chuckled. He had got the reaction he had hoped for. Mycroft was jealous as hell. If this didn’t make him act, then what would? And even if not – it was time to talk to Sherlock about a few things and with this action, he had got his attention for sure…

“Are you completely...”

“Sit. Down. Please.”

Sherlock dropped onto his chair, glowering at him.

“That’s a good boy,” John crooned. Sherlock took a deep breath but John silenced him with a rather rude gesture before he could shout at him. “Listen to me – there is no sense in denying it: you’ve got the hots for your brother.”

“What?! Are you mad?”

“And he’s got the hots for you so that’s fine.”

Sherlock snorted. “He did sleep with Lestrade. You should have seen his reaction when I mentioned that our dear friend Gustav was in his house.”

“Oh? Did he say he had sex with him?” John asked, grinning.

“Um. No. Not exactly. But what else...”

“He didn’t, Sherlock. I spoke with Greg. Lestrade! Mycroft was completely off when he showed up there. But he talked in his drunken sleep. And what he said was more than a hint at his feelings for you.”

Sherlock gaped at him for a moment. “Wait a minute… Lestrade heard this and decided to...”

“...pretend he had sex with him, yes, see if it makes you jealous. And it did.”

“Damn...”

“Yep. Never call him stupid again. And I just did the same with Mycroft.”

“He was always jealous of you,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Yeah. Because I’m your friend and you were not exactly nice to him. But now he has to believe we are more than that. Of course, that you moved out of my flat was not really a proof for this so I had to make it a bit… clearer.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me he doesn’t have anything with Lestrade?” Sherlock flared.

“Because… I wanted to get some real reaction out of you two. He would have never told you about his feelings, Sherlock. He would have taken them to the grave.”

Sherlock winced. Then he nodded. “He did show them though. In Sherrinford...”

“Yeah. But he hasn’t done it again so far, has he?”

“No. And now he thinks you’re my lover and will never do it!”

“That’s why you will go to him tonight. Maybe thinking about you and me will make him act on it. Maybe not. And then you can do it.”

“You’re a cunning little man,” Sherlock said, with some serious respect in his tone.

“Thanks,” John chuckled. “Me and Greg are not as stupid as you think.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “But John… if you ever touch my bum again, I’ll rip your head off.”

“Deal. More tea?”

### The Victory Of Love

Mycroft hung up his coat. He was alone. Well, of course. Sherlock had gone to Sherrinford in the afternoon, and he had been watching the video feed at his desk – his two younger siblings playing the violin together. Eurus had not said a single word, as expected, but she had been smiling all the time. In a weird, absent way but still smiling. So Sherlock's attention seemed to have some good influence on her.

He had tried not to feel hurt. Well, more hurt than he had already felt after leaving Baker Street. It was a mystery to him why Sherlock had wanted to stay with him now that he and the doctor… But probably he wanted to take it slow. That’s why he must have reacted rather strangely to John’s… vulgar action.

But since he had not come here after returning to London, he was with him now, obviously. Maybe John had convinced him that it was time to… get intimate.

Actually, Mycroft knew he should feel relieved. It was surely better if John stroked Sherlock, not punched him… But a man who had been so abusive once… What if Sherlock annoyed him again? What if he was jealous because of a client or whoever? Was Sherlock really in good hands with him? He would have to place cameras in Baker Street. Well, John wasn’t living there but he could watch them during the day, and if he felt this relationship wasn’t good for Sherlock, he would talk to the doctor, like he should have done last time.

He had walked to his living room without even noticing it. He poured himself a double whiskey and sat down in his armchair. And then he realised he was crying. Not sobbing like a child. But there were tears in his eyes. How pathetic he was. He had always known he would never have him. So what was the big deal now? He got up. He needed more whiskey.

He’d had some after Sherlock's unexpected departure the evening before. He could still not figure out what had made him run off. He knew he had reacted a bit weirdly to Sherlock mentioning Lestrade. But only because he had wondered what had he possibly said to the policeman in this night. He didn't even want to think about it… But Sherlock had reacted in a shocking way. And what he had said before he had stormed out… How could he think Mycroft would… do what, have sex with Sherlock's friend Greg Lestrade? As far as Mycroft knew, this man was straight as a line. And even if not – Mycroft wasn’t interested in him. It was a mystery to him.

And Mycroft had gone to Baker Street to see if Sherlock was angry at him. He hadn’t been. But he had behaved in a rather strange way. Everything was strange these days...

“Hello, brother.”

Mycroft almost dropped his glass. “Damn… I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Sorry. Do you have one for me?” Sherlock pointed at the tumbler. He looked good in his slim-fit black suit, his hair still damp from the shower he had obviously just taken. He smelled even better.

“Of course.” Mycroft poured him a generous amount of alcohol, trying to hide that his hand was shaking. “I… didn’t expect you.”

“Yes, well…” Sherlock stared into his face, and he couldn’t miss that his eyes were wet. Thankfully, he didn’t mention it. But what he said instead sent an icy shiver down Mycroft's spine. “We need to talk, Mycroft.”

The older man closed his eyes. What would come now? There were so many possibilities that he didn’t even try to figure it out. He couldn’t deduce Sherlock like he could deduce anyone else. “I’m all ears.” Even though that whatever this may be about, he wouldn’t want to hear it.

“John...” Sherlock began.

Of course. Sherlock wanted to tell him that he would move back in with John. Maybe even permanently. Or find another flat for the three of them – he, the doctor and the little girl. The new family… “I understand.”

“Um, no. You most definitely don’t understand at all.” Sherlock got up and started pacing through the room. “He touched my...” he gestured at his behind, and Mycroft tried not to stare at it, “thing, bum, for a reason.”

“I can imagine this reason very well.” Mycroft did remember Buckingham Palace. How hard it had been not to stare. Perhaps he had. For a second or two… He didn’t blame John for touching it. Everybody certainly wanted to touch it. And everybody except him could do it. Certainly The Woman had done it, too, maybe even this pathetic pathologist…

“He did it to make you jealous.” Sherlock dropped his bomb in a rather breathless voice.

“I beg your pardon?” Had this really come out of his mouth? Mycroft was surprised he was able to utter anything at all.

“Just like I was horribly jealous of Lestrade. I thought… He let us believe… that you had, you know, fucked him.”

“What?” Mycroft tried not to gape like a, well, goldfish. This was a completely insane conversation. Why the hell should the reasonable DI Lestrade do anything like this?

“It seems you told him you… want me. In your sleep.”

That was it. Mycroft would now get up and leave this house. He would just walk and walk until he fell over.

Sherlock stopped him at the door. “No, Mycroft. No running off. I did last night because I thought you had just confirmed having had sex with him. It drove me crazy.” He grabbed Mycroft's collar. “He can’t have you, you know.”

“Sherlock, what… You can’t be serious...” He felt like fainting, looking into those incredible eyes, so close to his own.

“I never saw how you were feeling about me, not until the other day and even then it wasn’t clear to me. You hid it so well,” Sherlock said quietly. “You always seemed to be so above me. Looking down on the druggie, the reckless little idiot.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I never thought like this about you. Yes, I hated the drugs. But I understood you. Your brain...”

“My brain had a lot to do with it. But also the fact that I had lost you.” Sherlock’s hands were still holding his collar.

Mycroft was terrified. “You never lost me!”

“You know what I mean. You went to uni, then to London. I only saw you when you came to admonish me or drag me out of drug dens. I did feel like a reckless idiot. I was. But I’m not anymore.”

Mycroft thought of him fighting for his life because Mary Watson had shot him. Saw him shooting Magnussen again. Remembered him pointing a gun to his head to save him, Mycroft, and his John.

“I can see what you’re thinking. But...”

“It’s all right, Sherlock. What you did lately you did for others. John, mainly. His wife. And most recently, even me. You’re no idiot. You never were. You’re my… Sherlock.”

And when Sherlock smiled at him at this, he could feel his heart melt like chocolate in the sun. “Yes. That’s what I am. Your Sherlock. Yours. If you want me.”

Somehow Mycroft's hands sneaked around his brother’s slim waist. “How is this possible? When did that happen?”

“I have no idea. You know I’m bloody bad at sentiment. But I know it’s there. And it was there before Sherrinford.”

Mycroft recalled how his brother had been looking at him before pointing the gun at him. He should have seen it. But it had been so far out of the question… “What do you want to do now?”

Sherlock eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. “Well. I think I want to kiss you.”

“Say that again?”

But Sherlock didn’t repeat it. Instead he just did it. He kissed him.

*****

They ended up on the thick carpet of Mycroft's living room floor. There was no hurry, no rudeness. Long fingers carefully, almost reverently opened buttons and unzipped trousers as if it was the most natural thing to do. Sherlock could see how dazed Mycroft's eyes were after this twenty-minute-kiss-marathon. He had given up all opposition and had handed himself over to him.

Sherlock had turned to grab a pillow from the couch and stuffed it behind Mycroft's head, then he had straddled him. Both of them were naked except for their pants. Sherlock's fingers carded through his brother’s impressive chest hair, his fingertips playing with stiffening nipples while he could feel the part of his brother he was sitting on becoming deliciously uncomfortable.

He hadn’t planned to do this so quickly. In fact he had been almost shivering when he had surprised his brother. But he couldn’t find any hesitation in himself anymore. Not only did he know that he could trust this man unconditionally, he also knew they had two trustworthy allies as well. And he was sure Mrs Hudson would support them just as much, if she found out about it. This was going to be fine. It was going to be great, actually.

He shuddered when Mycroft let his hands slide over his sensitive sides and stared up to him in wonder. He didn’t ask Sherlock if he was sure because there was hardly any doubt that he was. And he felt the urge to seal their new-found love. He bent down to claim Mycroft's soft lips in another kiss, less tender than the previous ones but the more passionate.

He sighed into Mycroft's mouth when he could feel warm hands on his bum. He grinned a bit at the memory of John, cunning John, touching him there. This felt very different though. His cock had reached a state of full hardness and he rubbed it against its counterpart and it felt wonderful even through two layers of rather thin clothing.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft protested when Sherlock moved to the side, but he relaxed at once when he saw why.

Sherlock wiggled out of his pants and then he slipped Mycroft's over his impressive bulge to let them disappear as well. “Damn, brother.”

“Ditto, Sherlock. Excuse me while I’m staring...”

Sherlock grinned. “May I touch?”

“Oh yes. It’s all yours. I suppose… you’ve got some experience with yourself?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Who says I have none with others?” Mycroft paled and Sherlock patted his thigh. “Just kidding. I do not, but yes, I do indulge in self-pleasuring from time to time. So I guess I will figure out how to handle yours, too.”

“You’re a genius. I know you will. Why don’t you get more comfortable though?” He gestured at his head.

The younger man had to think about what he meant for a moment. Then he gasped in delight. “Damn, Mycroft. Want to get the real show at once?”

Mycroft gave him a smirk he would have certainly not expected from his brother, and it made him feel jealous of the men he had certainly been with. “Just sit on my face, Sherlock.”

“Did you fantasise about this?” Sherlock asked curiously.

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. “I didn’t really dare. I thought I’d never have it. But now…”

“Now you don’t need to fantasise anymore,” Sherlock stated, matter-of-fact, and then he brought himself into the naughty position his brother had suggested, and at the first contact of Mycroft's hot tongue with his very virgin hole, he groaned to the ceiling before he grabbed Mycroft's tempting tool with a strong right hand.

*****

If this was a dream, Mycroft would have gladly gone on sleeping forever. He had faced an evening full of depression, probably getting drunk again, and instead he was lying on his living room floor, licking his brother’s hole while his cock was getting the royal treatment by Sherlock's large right hand.

It was a sight to keel over about. And he wouldn’t even mention the taste. He could have gone on licking him forever. And Sherlock was very responsive to his ministrations. More than once he squeezed Mycroft's cock almost painfully hard in his arousal, and Mycroft realised that he liked that very much. He had never been into pain. But then, he might not be a virgin like his brother, but sex had never been very pleasant for him or something performed very often. In his younger years, he had done it because it had proved to be a welcome distraction from his strenuous occupation. He had soon enough lost interest. The fact that he had always imagined the man in question to be Sherlock certainly had something to do with it. He just hadn’t been interested to bond with the goldfish, and it was easy to find men just for sex but it had always left a stale taste.

Sherlock's taste was not stale at all, neither literally nor figuratively. Mycroft loved the musky flavour, combined with salty sweetness. He loved caressing the wrinkled skin and to dart inside when he had licked him open for a couple of minutes.

“God, brother,” Sherlock brought out above him after lifting his arse from his face. “I bet you could make me come by this alone. I want to...” He broke off and now Mycroft patted his leg.

“Tell me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I want to suck you.”

“No objections. Would you like me to do it, too?”

“I guess we’re nearly in the perfect position for this...”

“Indeed. Give me your cock, Sherlock. And you know where mine is.”

“What happened to my decent, guilt-ridden brother?” Sherlock asked, sounding stunned.

Mycroft wondered about this, too. He had certainly never imagined a first encounter with Sherlock being like this. But then he had never imagined it at all. It all seemed like a miracle but he was a pragmatic man after all. Sherlock wanted him. He wanted Sherlock. What should they wait for? He had been longing for his brother for ages. And certainly Sherlock would let him know if he didn’t like what they were doing.

“I gave him the night off,” he answered Sherlock's question.

“Tell him he doesn’t have to come back. I’ll take you instead,” was the very unsurprising answer.

“Consider it done. And now...”

“Yes, you can have it.”

And a second later his mouth was stuffed with a big, hot penis, moist at the tip, and Mycroft started to suck it immediately, sure it would be a short pleasure.

*****

It was so hard not to come at once. Mycroft was a very smart, very cunning man and he was obviously a born cock-sucker as well. But Sherlock wouldn’t have been Sherlock if he hadn’t forced down his arousal and done his best to give as much pleasure as he was receiving only moments after Mycroft had started worshipping his other side.

A sixty-nine might not have been the best way to start this experience, at least not for normal people. But Sherlock could use the knowledge Mycroft was presenting to his benefit, mimicking his actions. He did bite Mycroft unwillingly twice but Mycroft hardly twitched, and soon enough Sherlock managed to cover his lips perfectly.

The pull in his groin was distracting but he also enjoyed what he was doing, memorising the taste and smell and texture, all very pleasant, the subtle noises of Mycroft's arousal and his own feelings in his mind palace. He would become perfect in pleasuring his brother and he knew he was pretty good already. He used his hand as well, forming a ring at the base of Mycroft's thick cock, and eventually he started to fondle the fuzzy balls, too. He couldn’t wait to do for Mycroft what he had done to him first. He wanted to fuck him and get fucked by him. Not all tonight, obviously. They had just jumped into those unknown waters and they would have to talk about a lot of things along with exploring their sexuality together. Sherlock was vastly looking forward to all of it. He knew himself in the best of hands.

When he allowed his arousal to take over, it only lasted a couple more seconds before he released himself into his brother’s mouth and throat. Mycroft gagged a bit but swallowed him, and Sherlock did the same only moments later. Getting his mouth flooded by hot stickiness wasn’t entirely pleasant but he knew he would get used to it very soon.

He turned to kiss Mycroft, tasting himself on his lips, and then he laid his head onto his chest, listening to his brother’s hammering heart.

“You liked it?” Mycroft asked him, stroking his back.

“Loved it. I guess we should shower now.”

“That would be convenient. And I would love to stretch out in my bed afterwards. Will you join me?”

“Oh yes. I guess I’ll need the guest room only for my clothes and my violin.”

“I’ll gladly share my bed with you,” confirmed Mycroft. “I won’t wake up tomorrow and find out I only dreamt this, will I?”

Sherlock raised his head and kissed him. “No. You will wake up with me snoring next to you, having stolen all the blankets.”

Mycroft smiled and tapped on his nose with his forefinger. “Nothing will make me happier. Will you help me up now?”

“Yep. Come, old man.”

“Do you want to get spanked?” Mycroft's eyebrows were dangerously raised, but the sparkling of his eyes and the smile around his lips ruined his attempt at sternness thoroughly.

Sherlock grinned. “I might like that.”

“I see very interesting times coming up.”

Sherlock saw them as well and he couldn’t wait for them to happen. And he and Mycroft owed all this to the cunning DI Lestrade. The man he would never call a goldfish again. And of course John as well. When Mycroft had disappeared into the bathroom, he typed two texts.

_Thanks, Greg. A big, big thanks. SH_

_Everything worked out fine. See you tomorrow. Thanks, SH_

He didn’t have to wait long for the replies.

_Great! I want to hear details tomorrow! XXX JW_

_Forget it. SH_

_Anytime, my clever detective. All I want for you is to be happy. X Greg_

_I am, be assured. SH_

Sherlock smiled while switching off his phone, and then he joined his brother under the shower to do more than just washing his back.

And the two brothers Holmes began their new life after the dark times – a life with tenderness, sex, good conversations, shared meals, more sex, and some very good friends.

🎻 The End 🌂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the boys surprised me here. They insisted on having sex the very first evening. As a wise woman recently told me: who am I to deny them having it? :)


End file.
